The forest is like a painted tower,
Lilac, gold, crimson,
A cheerful, motley wall
Standing above a bright clearing.
Birch trees with yellow carving
Glisten in the blue azure,
Like towers, the fir trees are darkening,
And between the maples they turn blue
Here and there through the foliage
Clearances in the sky, like a window.
The forest smells of oak and pine,
Over the summer it dried out from the sun,
And Autumn is a quiet widow
Enters his motley mansion.
Today in an empty clearing,
Among the wide yard,
Air web fabric
They shine like a silver net.
Plays all day today
The last moth in the yard
And, like a white petal,
Freezes on the web,
Warmed by the warmth of the sun;
It's so light all around today,
Such dead silence
In the forest and in the blue heights,
What is possible in this silence
Hear the rustle of a leaf.
The forest is like a painted tower,
Lilac, gold, crimson,
Standing above a sunny meadow,
Mesmerized by the silence;
The blackbird clucks as it flies
Among the undersea, where the thick
The foliage sheds an amber glow;
While playing, it will flash in the sky
Scattered flock of starlings -
And again everything around will freeze.
Last moments of happiness!
Autumn already knows what he is
Deep and silent peace -
A harbinger of long bad weather.
Deeply, strangely the forest was silent
And at dawn, when from sunset
Purple sparkle of fire and gold
The tower was illuminated by fire.
Then it became gloomily dark inside him.
The moon is rising, and in the forest
Shadows fall on the dew...
It's become cold and white
Among the clearings, among the through
Of the dead autumn thicket,
And terribly in autumn alone
In the desert silence of the night.
Now the silence is different:
Listen - she is growing,
And with her, frightening with her paleness,
And the month slowly rises.
He made all the shadows shorter
Transparent smoke hovered over the forest
And now he looks straight into the eyes
From the misty heights of heaven.
0, dead sleep of an autumn night!
0, the eerie hour of night wonders!
In the silvery and damp fog
The clearing is light and empty;
Forest, flooded with white light,
With its frozen beauty
As if he were prophesying death for himself;
The owl is silent too: it sits
Yes, he looks stupidly from the branches,
Sometimes he will laugh wildly,
Falls down with a noise from above,
Flapping soft wings,
And he will sit on the bushes again
And he looks with round eyes,
Leading with his eared head
Around, as if in amazement;
And the forest stands in a daze,
Filled with a pale, light haze
And leaves with rotten dampness...
Don't wait: it won't show up in the morning
The sun is in the sky. Rain and haze
The forest is fogged with cold smoke, -
No wonder this night passed!
But Autumn will hide deep
Everything she's been through
In the silent night and lonely
He will lock himself in his chamber:
Let the forest rage in the rain,
May the nights be dark and stormy
And in the clearing there are wolf eyes
They glow green with fire!
The forest is like a tower without a watcher,
All darkened and faded,
September, circling through the forest,
He took the roof off it in places
And the entrance was strewn with damp leaves;
And there the winter fell at night
And it began to melt, killing everything...
Horns blow in distant fields,
Their copper overflow rings,
Like a sad cry among the wide
Rainy and foggy fields.
Through the noise of the trees, beyond the valley,
Lost in the depths of the forests,
The horn of Turin howls gloomily,
Calling the dogs for their prey,
And the sonorous din of their voices
The desert noise carries the storm.
The rain is pouring, cold as ice,
Leaves are spinning across the meadows,
And geese in a long caravan
They fly over the forest.
But the days go by. And now there's smoke
They rise in pillars at dawn,
The forests are crimson, motionless,
The earth is in frosty silver,
And in the ermine slush,
Having washed my pale face,
Meeting the last day in the forest,
Autumn comes out onto the porch.
The yard is empty and cold. At the gate
Among two dried aspens,
She can see the blue of the valleys
And the expanse of the desert swamp,
The road to the far south:
There from winter storms and blizzards,
From winter cold and snowstorm
The birds have long since flown away;
There and Autumn in the morning
Will direct his lonely path
And forever in an empty forest
The open mansion will leave its own.
Sorry, forest! Sorry, goodbye,
The day will be gentle, good,
And soon soft powder
The dead edge will turn silver.
How strange they will be in this white
Deserted and cold day
And the forest and the empty tower,
And the roofs of quiet villages,
And heaven and without borders
There are receding fields in them!
How happy the sables will be,
And stoats and martens,
frolicking and warming up on the run
In the soft snowdrifts in the meadow!
And there, like a wild dance of a shaman,
They will burst into the bare taiga
Winds from the tundra, from the ocean,
Humming in the spinning snow
And howling like a beast in the field.
They will destroy the old tower,
They will leave the stakes and then
On this empty skeleton
Frost will hang through,
And they will be in the blue sky
The icy palaces shine
And crystal and silver.
And at night, between their white streaks,
The lights of the heavens will rise,
The star shield Stozhar will shine -
At that hour when, in the silence
Frosty fire glows,
The blossoming of the polar lights.
Analysis of the poem “Falling Leaves” by Bunin
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin was distinguished by his ability to vividly and picturesquely describe the beauty of Russian nature. His poems about nature are endowed not only with vivid descriptions, but also with deep meaning, forcing readers to look at things differently. the world. One of these poems is “Falling Leaves”.
Semantic analysis
The work “Falling Leaves” refers to landscape poetry. The poet draws attention to the autumn season, comparing it with the course of human life, adding a touch of philosophy. Three dominant images stand out: the lyrical hero, the forest and the autumn widow.
At the beginning of the work, the lyrical hero draws the readers' attention to the bright colors of the forest, striking the imagination. The forest is compared to the mansion in which Autumn lives. The author uses personification, comparing the golden age with a widow.
Throughout the poem, Bunin expands the scope of time. At first we are talking about one day - “today” - but the actions are limited to the framework of the clearing. The lyrical hero feels the shortness of the allotted time, realizing that this means the last sunny days of autumn, followed by the cold of winter. He allows himself to enjoy the warmth, sunshine and birdsong.
By the end, the scale expands to the month - “September” - the space includes the entire forest, even capturing the sky. The mood of the lyrical hero changes, as does the mood of the forest. He plunges into tense silence, an atmosphere of doom reigns around. The gloom of the picture is added by the laughter of an owl and the aroma of rotten leaves.
The last stanzas are written on behalf of Autumn. She cannot leave without saying goodbye to the forest. Autumn convinces him that forest dwellers will be happy about winter - freshness, snowdrifts, radiance.
IMPORTANT! The main message of the work is that you should not succumb to short-term sadness inspired by the weather. Every season brings something beautiful.
Composition and genre
The poem is divided into three parts: a description of the forest, a story about Autumn the widow, and Autumn’s appeal to the forest. All stanzas represent a complete thought.
The genre of the work is elegy. This is due to the dominance of landscapes with dreary and sad notes. You can also detect signs of plot lyrics.
The poetic meter is iambic tetrameter. There are male and female rhymes.
Means of artistic expression
The poem contains:
- personification (humanization of the season);
- metaphors (“dead sleep”);
- epithets (“forest... purple, golden, crimson”);
- comparisons (“a forest, like a painted tower”).
Bunin is a real artist. In words, he was able to convey the diversity of our world, the greatness and beauty of the autumn season.
* * * I am not loved by anyone! Empty autumn! Naked branches in the lemon haze; And behind the icon case the decrepit ears hang, dusty and heavy. I hate the damp semi-darkness of autumn feelings and drive away delirium like a dream. I polish my nails with a brush and listen to the old polyphone. Deaf music is tenderly false About the happiness of unrealistic people By the lake, where, without stirring the waters, Herds of soulless swans glide. * * * Like ancient jubilant glory, The clouds float and blaze, And the angel from the fortress of Peter and Paul Looks through them - into the centuries to come. But the gaze is clear - and it is unknown what is there - What dreams, sunsets of the city - In place of these faded gildings - What night will come forever! * * * I’m not asking for love, I’m not singing about spring, But you alone listen to my song. And how could I, oh, judge for yourself, Look at this snow and not go crazy? An ordinary day, an ordinary garden, But why are bells ringing all around, And nightingales singing, and flowers in the snow? Oh, why, answer, or do you not know? And how could I, judge for yourself, look into your eyes and not go crazy? I don’t say “believe”, I don’t say “hear”, But I know: now you are looking at the same snow, And behind your shoulder my love is looking at this snowy paradise in which you and I. * * * I learned little by little to walk with everyone - side by side, in step. Don't worry about trifles and obey the rules. They get up - I get up. Sit down - I'll sit down. I remember my hundred-digit number. I am loyally grateful to Hell for the starry roof over my head. * * * Spring didn’t say anything to me - I couldn’t. Maybe it wasn't found. Only in the dim passage of the station did the fleeting chandelier light up. Only someone bowed to someone from the platform in the blue night, Only the crown flashed faintly on my unfortunate head. * * * The cold will come, the leaves will fall off - And the water will become ice. My love, and you? And white, white snow will cover the smooth surface of the stream And the world will lose its bliss... And you, my love? But with a sweet spring the snow will melt again. The light and heat will return - And you, my love? * * * The melody becomes a flower, It blooms and crumbles, It becomes wind and sand, A spring moth flying towards the fire, It descends into the water with willow branches... A thousand instant years pass and the melody transforms into a heavy look, into the radiance of an epaulet, into leggings, in the mentik, in “Your Honor” In the cornet of the guard - oh, why not?.. Fog... Taman... The desert listens to God. - How far is it until tomorrow!.. And Lermontov1 goes out alone onto the road, jingling with his silver spurs. * * * Blue evening, quiet wind And (kissing these hands) In the sky, pink to the brim, - Burning out, dying... In the sky, pink to the point of flour, Birds or stars floated, And (kissing these hands) It was sooner or later - In the sky, pink to the brim, Quietly sink into the languid twilight, Knowing nothing like life, Remembering nothing like death. * * * The cloud has curled up into a ball, a blissful ball is rolling, and a pink dove flies after the blue dove. This ether is fading... Won't you forget, child, Into the sunny, shining world, the Wings that are outstretched, flying? - Call love by its name! - I can’t tell you by name. The name of my eternal love melts in the February snow. * * * The transparent flawed moon Shines with the inevitability of separation. A wave of music flies up to the sky, scattering sounds with ringing melancholy. - Goodbye... And the violin falls from his hands. Farewell, my friend!.. And the music stops. Life opens the circle for a moment and closes it again, forever. And again the music flies ringing. But no! Not like before - without me. * * * An angry and sad strip of dawn, A coal in the burnt ash, A migratory crane on this Evil and sad land... Even more - who needs it - Shine through the cold darkness... And the trees of the deserted garden rustle widely: “No one.” * * * Look, the pale blue sky is covered with stars, And the cold sun is still burning over the water, And the high road to the west leads with clouds Into the golden, like late autumn, Gardens of the Hesperides. My dear, walking along a deserted road, We, tired, will sit on a stone and sigh sweetly, Our hair will be tangled by the fragrant wind, and the pre-sunset sun will wash our feet with cool fire. The waves will rustle, running into the sad shallows, The mournful song of the fisherman will echo in the distance... This is all because I love you, dear, More than the warm wind, and waves, and sea sand. In this dark, deaf and solemn world there are two of us. There is no one else. There is nothing more. Look: The darkened sun trembles like a living heart, Like a living heart in love that beats in the chest. * * * Everything in life forms a circle - The merging of lips, the shaking of hands. Sunrise follows the sunset, Autumn drops ripe fruit. We dance a light dance, In the light of the lamps we do not see the darkness. Equally - lawn or parquet - Dance, monk, dance, poet. And you, Cupid, hit with arrows - Hearts are everywhere - wherever you look. Both shepherds and sorcerers are faithful to the desire for sweets. The whole world is just lovers. Slowly turn off the lights... Let it form a secret circle - Merge of lips, shake hands. * * * The rejoicing of eternal, blissful spring. The intoxicating nightingale trills And the magical shine of the Mediterranean moon I'm dizzyingly tired. Even more than that. And I’m not here at all, Not in the south, but in the northern royal capital. I stayed there to live. Real. I am everything. I just dream about the emigrant story - And Berlin, and Paris, and hateful Nice. ...Winter day. Petersburg. Together with Gumilyov, Along the frozen Neva, as if along the banks of Lethe, We calmly, classically just walk, As poets once walked in pairs. 1 * * * The path under Thermopylae is clear on all four sides. And Greece blooms with graves, As if there was no war. And we - Leontyev and Tyutchev1 Chaotic students - We never knew better than the trifles of an idle life. We amuse ourselves with self-deceptions, And spring indulges us, Having passed between the sober and the drunk, She sits down by the window. “Breathing with perfume and mists, She sits by the window.” She can see a blissful country beyond the seas and oceans: There are Christmas trees, Hiding the snowy prison. And the blue Komsomol girls, Vizha, swim in the Crimea. They dive over the graves, On one side are poems, on the other is the groom. ...And Leonidas at Thermopylae, Of course, died for them too. * * * How colorless everything is, everything tasteless, Dead inside, funny from the outside, How inexpressibly sad I am, How sickeningly boring I am... Yawning myself at this topic, I change it as I go. - Look how lush the chrysanthemums are in the garden burned in the fall - As if Lermontov’s Demon is sad in an orange hell, As if Vrubel is remembering Scraps of a creative dream And the wave of purple music is regally waning... * * * Covered in fading glory, In the ring of saints, cretins and the rogue, the Double-Headed Eagle was not exhausted in battle, but died terribly, humiliatingly. One said with a grin: “I waited!” Another cried: “Lord, forgive me...” But no one thought of taking the stuffed animals into exile, as into a grave. I learned little by little to walk with everyone - side by side, in step. Don't worry about trifles and obey the rules. They get up - I get up. Sit down - I'll sit down. I remember my hundred-digit number. I am loyally grateful to Hell for the starry roof over my head. * * * Tell about all the world's fools, That they hold the fate of humanity in their hands? Tell me about all the dead scoundrels who go down in history in bright crowns? For what? Silence under a Parisian bridge. And why should I care what happens next? What about people? Well, what do I need people for? A man is walking, leading a bull. The merchant sits: legs, breasts, handkerchief, round sides. Nature? This is nature - now it’s rain and cold, now it’s hot. Melancholy at any time of the year, Like the rattling of a mosquito. Of course, there are also entertainments: Fear of poverty, love of torment, Art is a sweet candy, Suicide, finally. * * * What about people? Well, what do I need people for? A man is walking, leading a bull. The merchant sits: legs, breasts, handkerchief, round sides. Nature? This is nature - now it’s rain and cold, now it’s hot. Melancholy at any time of the year, Like the rattling of a mosquito. Of course, there are also entertainments: Fear of poverty, love of torment, Art is a sweet candy, Suicide, finally. * * * These announcements are becoming more and more frequent: Fellow soldiers and family Express their regrets again... “Today you, and tomorrow me! "We are dying out in order - Some in the morning, some in the evening And on the cemetery bed We lie down, evenly, side by side. Incredibly ridiculous: There was a whole world - and there is none. Suddenly - no icy campaign, No Captain Ivanov, Well, absolutely nothing! * * * If only I could live... If only I could live... At least serve in a foundry. At least as a coal miner with a heavy pick, At least as a barge hauler over the Great River. “Let’s go, cudgel...” All these are dreams. Your hands are not needed for anything . These shoulders can't lift anything. So there's nothing to blame on God. There's a straw. There's vodka. Everyone in the tavern has the same honor! * * * Roman Gul There aren't even expensive graves in Russia, Maybe there were - but I forgot. There's no St. Petersburg , Kiev, Moscow - Maybe there were, but I forgot, alas. I don’t know the borders, nor the seas, nor the rivers, I know that there is a Russian man left there. He is Russian by heart, Russian by mind, If I meet him, I will I will understand. Immediately, right away... And then I will begin to distinguish his country in the fog. * * * I walk and think about different things, I weave a wreath on my coffin, And in this ugly world I am gracefully alone. But suddenly I hear: war, idea, Last battle, twentieth century. And I remember, growing cold, That I am no longer a person, But a spasm of an idiot, Created by nature in vain - “Hurray!” from the jaws of the patriot, "Down!" from the throat of a rebel. * * * I. Odoevtseva1 Sprayed with a million tiny particles, In the icy, airless, soulless ether, Where there is no sun, no stars, no trees, no birds, I will return - as a reflection - in a lost world. And again, in the romantic Summer Garden, In the blue whiteness of St. Petersburg May, I will silently walk along the deserted alleys, Hugging your precious shoulders. * * * The tailor irons the new thing, the tailor sniffles, the iron hisses, and the trousers look no worse than any ordinary trousers. Meanwhile, they are made of wax, Made of music, made of quinoa, There is a white stripe on the blue - The border between happiness and misfortune. Hands reached out from the abyss... One held flowers, the other held a dagger. The tailor jumped up, saving his trousers, but did not run away. A dagger sticks out in the tailor's side, the roses on his chest turn white. Ivanov's trousers fly in the radiance and - eternity lies ahead... * * * Winter goes on as usual - Snow again. Another debt. And it’s disgusting in this disgusting world to chew yesterday’s pie. And in this world too narrow, Where all the loss and damage Consider yourself, for some reason, Russian, Read poetry, count crows. Having relaxed, I rejoice in May, When winter has melted... Oh, Lord, I don’t understand, How we all, without going crazy, Get up and lie down, shave our cheeks, We walk or drink and eat, We regret the past and future, But we still don’t care about our souls we will sell. This withering darling - For a dime, a penny, a penny. A bit expensive? - For half a ruble. Take it for free! - Don't take it? * * * An enamel cross in the buttonhole And a gray cloth jacket... What sad faces And how long ago it was. What beautiful faces And how hopelessly pale - the Heir, the Empress, the Four Grand Duchesses... * * * It’s good that there is no Tsar. It's good that there is no Russia. It's good that there is no God. Only the yellow dawn, Only the icy stars, Only millions of years. It’s good that there’s no one, It’s good that there’s nothing, It’s so black and so dead, That it couldn’t be deader And it couldn’t be blacker, That no one will help us And we don’t need to help. 1930 * * * The moon rose over the pink sea. A bottle of wine turned green on the ice, and loving couples circled languidly to the plaintive rumble of a ukulele. - Listen. Oh, how long ago it was, The same sea and the same wine. It seems to me that the music is the same. Listen, listen, it even seems to me. - No, you are mistaken, dear friend. We lived then on a different planet And we were too tired and too old For this waltz and this guitar. 1925 * * * There was everything - both prison and scrip, In the possession of a full mind, In the possession of a full talent, With the cursed fate of an emigrant I am dying... * * * My melancholy cannot be overcome, I cannot overcome a persistent dream; Already the slow night is approaching its black ghost. The already empty heights are whispering about the sad and near hour. And the red shadows merged above the solar bloody disk. And My languor and torment become more and more unbearable and painful. I walk down the granite steps and stretch out my arms towards sunset. Alas, silent as melancholy, the sunset burning in the distance. After all, he and these clouds are only victorious forerunners of darkness. * * * In the thirteenth year, not yet understanding what would happen to us, what awaits us, - raising glasses of champagne, We cheerfully celebrated the New Year. How we have grown old! Years pass, Years pass - we don’t notice them... But this air of death and freedom, And roses, and wine, and the happiness of that winter No one has forgotten, oh, I’m sure... It must be through the leaden darkness, On the world that is lost forever, The eyes of the dead look like this. * * * Sadness sighs with an Aeolian harp And candles are lit by wax stars And a distant sunset, like a Persian shawl, Which wraps gentle shoulders. Why do nightingales whistle incessantly, Why do sunsets bloom and fade, Why are your precious shoulders as tender as pearls and sloping as the sky! * * * A light moon will flash over the crosses of forgotten graves, A languid ray will illuminate the sad heap of destruction, A warm wind will sigh: I was grass and a cloud, Someday I too will be a human heart. You are in love, you are sad, you languish in the cool of the night, You call your friend, you call her Irina, But the time will come, and you will fly over our curly land, and you will not look, and you will not recognize these fields. And love - it will become a seven-colored rainbow, The cuckoo's cuckoo, or a stone, or an oak branch,) And other lovers will stand at the window And others, in painful tenderness, will bring their lips closer... The warm wind sighs, the trees rustle by the stream, A light sickle is reflected in the mirror of the northern night, And, like the Lord’s robe, I kiss the edges of the dresses, And the knees, and the lips, and those green eyes. * * * That’s why the rustling of the grass torments me, That the grass will turn yellow and the rose will fade, That your precious body, alas, will become wildflowers and clay. Even the memory of us will disappear... And then the clay will come to life under skillful fingers And for the first time spring water will splash into the golden, wide neck of the jug. And the other, perhaps, will be embraced by another At sunset, at the appointed hour, at the well... And from the naked shoulder the dust will slide down the road and, ringing, will break into pieces. * * * Heavy oaks, and stones, and water, Harsh visions of ancient masters, You own me. Always give me the same vague, dull pleasures! It’s like I’m leaving the house at dusk, And the wind, angry, tears off the road cloak, And the foam hits my face. But I look vigilantly at the sea, at the sunset, crimson and alarming. Oh, wind of antiquity, I hear your voice, excited like a sailor, with hope and pain, and I know that there, on fire, above the fatal swell, sails soaked in salt are fluttering. * * * I have fallen out of love with the seeking land, I don’t hear the streams and I don’t listen to the winds, And if my heart loves those silks that are sold in the Crimea. In them there are roses, and berries, and dawns The sea shines through the captivity. Behold, the lungs fly from the hands, rustling, And the captive soul listens to them. And, tormented by the charm of the air, it is alien to everything, it strives past everything. You know, the one who simply sang and lived deserved a blessed rest. Night will come. Like silk falling on the mountains. The colors will fade and the eyes will go blind. * * * And the singing of the shepherd's horn Slowly melted into the distance, And darkness blew. Only the edge of the earth The clouds are blushing with sunset alarm. Along golden leaves is my path. O heart, listen to decay! Purple, sail your ships And fade at the blue threshold! No, death does not await me and life is simple and joyful. But the tart poison of Autumn is entwined in the soul With you, joy, and with you, glory! And there are no sweeter roads than the sunset, When the horn blows and falls silent. * * * The midnight cool is already running, And the first ray fluttered in the leaves, And the lamp that went out for a month Smokes, disappearing in the clouds. Dawn hour! Time for separation! The lovers' sheltered oak rustles, Hands joined for the last time, The last kiss of cold lips. Yes! The classic dawns are good, When the waves of the agitated sea are thrown onto the marble steps And the seagulls hover and breathe more freely! But I love the rays of another Aurora, Which is not destined to bloom: A foggy ray that gilded the mountains, And a distant view through a wide window. The grove is smoking damp from the rain, A rooster is crowing on the roof of the mill, And, plaintively playing the pipe, a little shepherd wanders after the flock. * * * In mid-September the weather is changeable and cold. The sky is like a curtain. The nature of theatrical tenderness is full. Every stone, every blade of grass, That barely sways, Like Maeterlinck’s characters Pronounce strange words: - I love, love and die... - Look - the soul is like wax, like smoke... - Soon, soon we’ll fly to the blue paradise Like swans... In the autumn, when your eyes are foggy, your thoughts are confused, your heart is filled with ice, it’s sweet to listen to these conversations, looking into the golden green of stagnant waters. With a slightly noticeable dizziness, Walk along the yellow carpet, Light a cigarette in the wind with an absent-minded movement. * * * Finally, golden freedom breathed upon me, Air full of autumn sun, wind, and honey. The centuries-old trees of the deserted garden rustle, And the bells ring past the walking herd, And a milky fog creeps through the low valley... This evening, once, was already in flames in Palestine. In the same way, the sky turned blue and the damp grass smoked at the hour when Mary made her way to Egypt with the baby. A dark child's blush, and a donkey, and a bunch of grapes... The bells of the herd tinkled as they walked by. And in the sun that was going out, throwing away the peacock headdress, Joseph admired, covering his eyes with his palm. * * * The green blood of oak trees and grave grass Someday the languid blood of lovers will become. And the wind that rustled at them during separation: “Alas,” “Alas” will rustle over the other lovers again. A beautiful body will mix with a handful of sand, And tears will return to the native ocean... “My dear, clouds are flying above us, The star is turning green and the black branches are rustling...” * * * Again the lips say: “Muse,” And sings plaintively wave, And, smiling like a jellyfish, the moon appears. Chu! Light rattle of copper! And thunder from the illuminated clouds, Perseus flies to Andromeda, clutching a moonbeam in his hand. And the sails sigh noisily Over the crests of desert waters: She, beautiful and crazy, Now curses, now calls. "Maiden! I pierced the monster with the steel of a faithful blade! I brought you a treasure, Necklaces and silks!" All the luxury of Asia is in vain For Andromeda, O Perseus! She is crazy and beautiful - She doesn’t hear your complaint. What are pearls to her, what is the voice of a muse, What is passion, and waves, and sunset, When the terrible pupils of a jellyfish look into her eyes! * * * From the cloud, from the pinkish foam, slightly revived by green blood, the gardens of the unknown caliphate are visible in the radiance of the moon. There is melancholy, spring, coolness and elusive silver. All the outlines of such a garden are like an ostrich feather. There, an enchanted odalisque plays with pearls from afar, and a note slips into the prisoner's tower from the beak of a pink dove. I hear the faint fragrance of transparent thickets and flower beds, and the breath of light music flies towards me, mysterious, from the clouds. But this lasts only a single moment: Here again is the silence of the room, The pea-sized muslin curtains And the Kamennoostrovskaya moon. * * * I remembered you, my grave, my distant homeland, where the roar of the waves, where the willow tree overshadowed the deaf shadow of a rocky stream. Sunset over the grove. A herd passes through a light veil of fog... My dear friend, I don’t need anything, So I made it here and will rest. Old friend! Who cries, who dreams, And I stand by this stream And I see how my love burns and fades like a sunset cloud... * * * A bat described an irregular circle, A pine branch swayed over the dark river, And it flashed in the thin air, touching the reeds , A silver pebble thrown by a child's hand. I know, I know, and the sea is declining, The sand is covering the oases, the river is drying up, And in the heart of the desert someday life will bloom, And the roses will sigh over the icy water of the spring. But if there is no blue eye in the whole world, Like dark gold, braids and lips are like honey. But if you love so sweetly, will the merciless wind with the autumn leaves really carry us away? And, perhaps, in the roar of the sea and the rustle of the grass, Other lovers will secretly hear with longing About our love that has gone out, shining for a moment like a Silver pebble thrown by a child’s hand. * * * The colors of the moon and fading raspberries are yours, sunset and decay are yours, the wind disturbs the desert valleys, and the streams foam as they freeze. And only sometimes, ringing bells, the green arc will rattle. And only sometimes behind the distant trunks the barking of dogs and hunting horns. And again silence... The cold dawn is sad and cruel. And the dead breath of October spreads widely in the air. * * * When the autumn anxiety is bright In the blush of the clouds and the rustle of leaves, It is so sweet and simple to believe in God, In calm work and your home shelter. It was already sunset, playing with clothes, rushed on swans and went out. And the evening is hazy and the foliage is damp, And the heart recognizes its secret hour. But it is not in vain that the heart grows cold: After all, there, behind the wondrous purple of the gods, there is only strength. She owns everything - The cold wind from the Lethean shores. * * * Lying next to you again, I inhale the delicate scent of a body that smells of the sea and almond milk. Lying next to you again, With slight dizziness, I look into your eyes, greener than sea water. I kiss my wet lips, I kiss my warm skin, And my eyes are blinded by the dark gold of my hair. As if I were lying, caressed by the red rays of the sun, on sea sand , and the wind smells of bitter almonds. * * * On a hot afternoon, I fell out of love with Nature’s sleepy swaying, And the sultry breath of the wind, And the indifferent ardor of the sea. Having stepped onto the shore of the chalk, the Fisherman throws his net, With a brick, strong palm he wipes away the sweat of his labor. But the gaze of the green blocks idly listens to the copper tides, The nature of the south is ugly, Like the stupor of these sleepy fish. A white line in the surf, A ball of a low-growing bush, In a bucket of steaming water The last, faint splash of the tail!.. Night! Will the world soon be swallowed up by Your sleepless womb? But the afternoon lasts, anger ripens, And the ether is dazzling. * * * The snow has already turned yellow and melted, the ice has fallen from the porch. It still seems to me that I will spend a simple life here to the end. In this old manor's house, Where the parquet floor creaks underfoot, Where all things are frozen in the languor of the same slow years. In my heart, sweet shadows have risen, I remember the past years, - It’s so nice in Voltaire’s chair to sigh about the past sometimes And, looking out the window on a quiet evening, To see light dreams in reality, Not embarrassed by the knowledge that for the sake of fleeting melancholy I live. * * * The firmament is divided into two parts: The crescent moon burns in one, And in the other, the fire of sunset glows like a red bush. The moon sharpens streams of light, taken full by the stars. The distance is still dressed in fire, But it is already linen with silver. And over the white prayerful Night, sadness floats, silent, Flows with the pipe music of the Lifeless shepherd. Soon the unclear noise will cease, In the silence the fields will fall asleep... And the red month will drown, Unable to master the starry paths. * * * The night is bright, and the sky is filled with bright stars. I'm all alone in a deserted room; The air is saturated and poisoned with the aroma of fading azaleas. I am exhausted by an incomprehensible melancholy About everything that can no longer be. The dark hall - oh, how gray and boring it is! - Whispers to me that I have lived my best dream. How many secrets and tender tales they remember, without being able to tell anyone, suites of empty rooms and portraits in the old gallery. If only their conversation were clear to me! But alas, my dream is powerless. Splashes of moon spots hurt my eyes on the faded and dusty curtain. And the tender poem of the past is more silent than the secrets of the hieroglyph. Everything is dispassionate, gloomy and silent. Oh dreams - the fruitless labor of Sisyphus! * * * He is a monk. He is God's. And the letters of the charter connected all thoughts, all feelings, all fairy tales. In his soul there are herbs, autumn herbs, the sad faces of withered azaleas. He occasionally dreams about the days that have sailed away. But she dreams wearily, no longer regretting, Not seeing angel wings through the gold, As Salome froze in the dance of love. And the moon freezes in pale blue enamel, The dying strings of the soul become numb... And the letters of the charter bound all the feelings, - And he fades, God's, and he withers, the young one. AT THE WINDOW On the green velvet curtain A ray of the moon fell slantingly. Silent and clear in the prophetic cards is my unchanging lot: Every evening for sleep, like a miracle, I will wait at the window. Every day I will call you, the silence of the night. Under the moon, a formidable ghost of a winged horse will carry the Queen and me in the frosty dust. But with the dawn, the bright and angry Sun will throw fire upward, And the princess will melt, And the white horse will rush off. Longing for the moonlit sky Once again I will be at the window, Cursing the bitter lot of an unfinished dream. * * * The oily Merry lights are shining again. And the sad days seem in vain. As if on a northern night My melancholy found in the snow a clover leaf with four petals. And since childhood, dear to my heart, You arise again, Such unforgivable and clear love. The frost pricks a little, the fires smoke slightly, and the heart sweetly prays to the breath of the breeze. Valiant courage And a sleigh like an arrow, To me a child’s buttery And Russian sweet. Whose? Vanina or Mashina Courage is more fun In a decorated troika Flying among the fields? The black filly is cowardly, A cry comes from the skating rinks, And the cavity is all patterned with motley rags. I am not cheerful in vain, - Dreams come true, The cheerful talk of oil is the threshold of spring. And it promises us that Easter will come again, that all our aspirations will come true, that the strong ice will melt. And on the white night of the north my longing will find a clover leaf with four petals for love. * * * The snow turns brown, melts, and the ice cracks. Easter, Holy Week is coming. Spring is still in the fog, But we know it is close... The clouds float and beckon the heart to freedom. And the resurrected land rejoices in God. And it’s time for me to hit the road, to the spring fields. I will bow down to the miraculous icon... My spacious path lies through all honest Rus'. My joyful path lies, In the burning sun, Through the mountains and through villages, Over the blue seas. I will begin to listen to the bells of the Holy monasteries, to bow to the ground at the royal doors. But free chains are safer than prison, - There is no strength to leave books, Meditations and psalms. Alas! - You can’t escape from your cramped cell forever to imperishable joy along the bright path. But long-forgotten things come flooding into my soul - I look, without getting tired, at the high window. The valley and the river are brightening, And the distant snows are brightening, And the sun is like a Holy Thursday candle. * * * The iron pattern of the rigging and masts, You stir the heart sweetly, When bridges are raised, creaking, over the dark abyss. I love the light green fog, the screeching of the foundations, the howling of sirens, the heavy columns of hundred-year-old buildings above the Neva. Slow barges are gliding, The clock shows three... Already the Admiralty arches are blushing with the first ray of dawn; The pale twilight is already sparkling, And the shaft beats more dullly into the granites. .. No wonder, a reserved city, the Great One founded You! And the winds from Ladoga - no wonder they broke the ringing ice of the Neva - With what silver fire the spring dawn rises! The sky above the river is brightening, the roses are crushing in crystal, and the flying horseman on the rock is menacing with his hand raised. * * * I love to meet the dawn glow in the foggy blue, When the ice floes rush along the Neva with a heavy roar. The cold wind whistles in the ears With an inexplicable plea... Through the roar, whistle and darkness, a distant battle is deeper than the Chimes. Leaning on the railing, From the bridge I look at the ice drift, And over the fragments of beryl A blazing sunrise rises! Opening its wings ever wider, the Dawn is silent and clear, - And there, below, the living, icy blue is boiling. And light splashes fly up, sometimes in amber, sometimes in silver... And in the east the clouds are melting and birds are quietly flying towards the fiery dawn. PETROGRAD MAGIC The dawn has faded, and the ridge of amber clouds is thinning, The transparent air is getting colder, And the water is silently splashing. The sacred twilight of the white night! Never-ending surf! And again eternity looks into the eyes of the Granite Sphinx over the Neva. The languid wind breathes again, Giving birth to vague dreams, And the inspiration of the past, Iron City, you are full! Aquamarines tremble in the water, a light moon floats up... And the times of Catherine are reminiscent of silence. The sleepy twilight casts a spell on the soul, And the blue fog whispers, That Montferrand has not yet created the Alexander Column. And the ivy of oblivion did not curl The brilliance of ancient and living glory... ...Perhaps Tsarevich Pavel Now passes over the Neva!.. Tears of delight blur the vision, Distant steps are heard... Memories of antiquity hurt with longing for the irrevocable. And the waves beat in vague passion, the East becomes brighter, and in the distance the rigging and silhouettes of ships turn black. * * * Again the snow turns blue in the field and does not melt from the rays. Again the heart wants freedom, Again it beats hot. And my window is burning, all in a pattern of icy roses. Hello, wind, hello, sun, And freedom, and frost! Why are you worried and confused? Why are you languishing, my heart? This snow reminds us of our Volga hermitages. Dark green pine trunk, Snow towers, Darkened icons of Byzantine writing. There, illuminated by a candle, I will forget my pain. There, in a hidden prayer, I will pour out all my anxiety. But alas! Dear winter For prayer and work I will never leave, I will never go to the Volga region. And my dreams are in vain About distant and dear ones. The wind is free, the cold is clear, Frosty snow is outside the window! * * * My loneliness is restless today - I’m standing at the portrait - and the silence is languishing... My great-great-grandfather Vasily - I don’t remember my middle name - As if alive, he looks straight into the soul from the canvas. A dark blue camisole of a retired military man, a Little Little Arab at his feet and a Turkish hookah. In a calloused hand there is a silvery foamy round ladle. Only, apparently, the landowner is not drunk. Gray eyebrows frown over brown eyes, wrinkles have fallen around the dark mouth. This chest, having survived so many blows from the Enemy's checkers, is filled with melancholy. Well? In old age you can’t cope with your sons, Or the years you have lived are heavy on your shoulders, Or is the serf beauty sweet to death, What will an envious neighbor never sell? No, something else is tormenting. Like the white flame of the moon cutting through a clouded canopy, a quiet ghost rises in the dungeon of the tortured Innocent sufferer - the first wife. You can’t get rid of this torment in a frantic revelry, You can’t drown remorse with intoxicating moisture... Locking yourself in your office, you would end with a shot With a gloomy life, but the sky is dark. And now, branded by family tradition, As alive, as alive, he looks from the canvas, As if there is no forgiveness for his atrocities And the afterlife, like earthly life, is black. * * * The more days behind old shoulders, the further the present moves away, The old general’s wife cannot keep track of life with weakened eyes. And why? Isn't the Past more magnificent? - There is Catherine’s courtyard, His magnificent paintings are replaced instantly and slowly. The tired mind has become accustomed to the cherished numbers, The memories of past years are lowered, And, decorated with the maid of honor’s code, The chest, coughing, breathes calmly. This is how old age lasts undisturbed - In winter in the bedroom - in summer on the terrace... ...In the evenings - the Empress herself, In regalia and in whispering satin, Appears to the old woman general, Conversing and graciously joking... And the days fly, the past is all further, And soon the angel will wake up the sleeping one. * * * The wide windows have a rural view, The blue walls have simple armchairs, And the unpainted floor creaks, And quiet joy has been resurrected. Loneliness is with me again... The honeycomb of poetry has opened, The bindings are captivated by the sweet antiquity of worn leather. I walk quietly back and forth, looking at the bright ray of sunset. Eros smiles at me from the porcelain dial. The blue twilight flows, And the long evening comes: The battle of Navarrene fades on an ancient lithograph. The shackles of existence are light... So, without languishing or bored, I would spend my whole life with Pushkin and a cup of tea. * * * I keep imagining anxiety and sunset, And the autumn wind over Palace Square; The Admiralty Garden is dressed in cold darkness, And the tires rustle along the end pavement. I will stand like this, and you will come down to me from the purple clouds, hope and delight! But you hesitate, and now I am doomed to the moon, Tosca and the streets of empty Petrograd. And my cane knocks on the ringing pavement, Where the wind hits our faces and blows up the floors. .. Sunset red smoke. Sirens wail for a long time. And tomorrow is a new day - crazy and fun. * * * The lips are still repeating the prayer, And the mind is already counting the profits. Wrapped in raccoon coats, merchants hurry through the streets. Fires smoke throughout the royal capital, bolts squeal and castles rattle, and at the dawn of January a cornucopia and a row of fruits are scattered. The shine of the melon, the perfection of the grapes, the blush of the apples, the arrogance of the pineapples!.. His dignity sits behind the revenue, Like hosts, giving orders here. Reads "Zemshchina". Taking a bite from the saucer, he drinks tea, snacking on a roll, and the sunbeams laugh on a teapot, blue as the sky. And at home, on down jackets, damp, dressed in silk, the hostess waits and, fingering a string of pearls, sighs, yawns and crosses her mouth. * * * Again whitewash, sepia and soot, And the trumpets of geniuses thunder point-blank. Again the cramped architectural landscape reveals space! The humpbacked bridge was cut through by winches, the peacock fan spread the sunset, and the clouds, as light as sailing boats, fly above the domes. The moonlight cast a glow onto the flat steps. And, subdued, the lion squeezes his cast-iron ball with a heavy paw on the black base. JOHN WOODLEY Turkish Tale 1 Indeed, the afternoon is too hot, The splash of the water is too even. Tired of flat barques Multi-colored rows. Everything that is visible to the eye here - the Sea, the pier, the hustle and bustle, Five tramps getting into a quarrel, Damn it, is not for me! What's more boring - walking around without anything to do, Without love and without wine. Rosalind grew cold. Henrietta is unfaithful. There are no visiting foreigners, ill-mannered southerners, curled Venetians, indifferent Parisians. And in the tavern, in the evenings, Getting excited, getting excited, I don’t scatter the cards with my nimble hands. Or maybe the fashion for fun and wine has passed in the world, Ah, the marked deck! Ah, green cloth! 2 Why, sir, did you frown? Grief? Let's cure now! Our barge is ready, waiting only for you. John looks: in front of him, in a robe, is a Negro, dressed like a rajah. “The mistress pays well, the mistress loves ardently. Be in love and bashful, tenderly passionate until dawn, don’t even talk about anything to the sea and olives, and money will always jingle in your pockets, rattling, and neither Allah nor the mistress will forget you. Only "The dawn will color the poplar, Our ship will set sail again, Let's sail to Constantinople, Where there is contentment and love. If you are dumb and passionate, You will be surrounded by glory!" And he said: “I agree,” John, lighting his pipe. 3 Zobeida, Zobeida, Tomen is the heat in your blood, Whose offense is more deadly than deceived love. With sweet sherbet you draw out poisonous melancholy, like a cut rose you wither on down and silk. Ah, cruel, ah, unfaithful, Forgetting honor and dignity, Where are you today, hypocritical, Seductive Hassan, Where is your ship sailing, Dividing the foamy waves, Whose bliss is sheltered by the Unknown Land? “Am I not burning with passion, Am I not true to my word?” - “Madam!” Selima’s back is bent low in front of her. “Madam, the strict order you gave has been fulfilled, John Woodley is waiting on the threshold to see you.” 4 Today John, child of the fog, Red-cheeked little G, Bears the name of Suleiman, Lady's cafe. Proud glances flicker, And movements are hot, Gilded keys rattle near the belt. Free life is full of sweet flattery and ringing gold. ...Only sometimes before sunset there is silence over the Bosphorus. Ah, for wonderful joy, Heart, heart, don’t pray, Here are the ships arriving from lovely Genoa. They arrive, float by, float away again into the distance. And a lonely sadness takes possession of the soul. Hopeless anxiety About the life lost forever, which a person receives from the hands of God. * * * Above sunsets and roses - The rest is all the same - Above the solemn stars Our happiness is lit. Happiness is tormented or tormented, Jealous and forgotten. Happiness is given to us from God, Our long-awaited happiness, And there will never be another. Everything else is just music, Reflection, witchcraft - Or a blue, cold, Endless, barren World triumph. * * * The cheerful hunter takes aim, and the bird falls at his feet. And the disappearing smoke spreads across the faded low meadows. The swamp dawn turns pink, and in the blue smoke, slowly, the ethereal, homeless bird soul flies into the sky. And what in human fate is more beautiful than the fate of birds, Apart from the cold melodiousness of a few treasured pages? * * * We create cities from blocks of stone, We love clear thoughts and exact numbers, And it is unpleasant and strange for the soul when the wind blows a sad song without meaning. Or the sea is noisy. Neither hope nor passion, Everything that is dear to us, will find an answer in them. If you are a man, deny this power, Subdue this choir to the inspiration of the poet. And it’s time to understand that the poet is not Orpheus, sighing for the shadow on the empty coast, but in a tailcoat, with a whip, a tamer of animals In an arena flooded with artificial light. * * * We live on a round or flat Little planet. We drink. Let's eat. And, puffing on a cigarette, Sometimes we look at the sky. Let's see, and suddenly the heart will grow cold for some unknown reason. From the blue space will blow cold and happiness into it. If you want to remember something, you don’t have the strength, If you reach out, your hand can’t reach you... They just dive in the blue waves of the night, Like big seagulls, clouds. CONVERSATION Sad! Why are you sad, my poor heart? Is it because there is no sun today and it’s raining? Scary? Why are you scared, my poor soul? Is it because Autumn is coming, the leaves are rustling? - No, the weather is like the weather, But it’s probably more fun To fight in a banker’s tuxedo, Than to be bored in your chest. - No, but tomorrow is like today, And today is like yesterday, It would be better if I were the soul of a Dancer in Opera. - It’s so easy, it’s so easy to cure our melancholy - It’s so easy to add a dose of arsenic to black coffee. - I am very grateful to you for your practical advice. I miss you no less for twenty-eight years. * * * The hot stove is closed, What a deserted house. There is a candle under the lampshade, A window under the ice. I made it all up and now I’m afraid, They’re not there, they’re not there, they’re not there. Do not believe. Do not believe. Do not believe. Under the old pine tree, Where the weak starlight is - I don’t know: two, three, or not at all. In the daze of the night - Tick-tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. And the leaking eyes look into the surrounding darkness. On the frost, frost, frost (Or they are not there at all), On the blue, blue, blue Infant dawn. * * * I feel sad on nights like this, When it’s neither light nor dark. And the stars, with slanting rays, look carefully out the window. Choirs of millions are looking at the world, at me, at the bed. There is no point in drawing the curtains. You shouldn't close your eyes. They look into the very heart, where there is fatigue, and fear, and melancholy. And the unfortunate heart beats like a fly in a spider's web. When will I become a poet So much so that I despise everything, So much so that in this cold I can play with the Insensitive light? * * * I don’t remember you, Why should I remember? This is only what I know, Only what can be known. The edge of the earth. A strip of smoke reaches into the sky, slowly. Lonely, unsociable The soul flutters like a swallow. The edge of the earth. Beyond the blue edge of Eternity is an empty expanse. What we don't know, What we don't need to know. If I say that I know, you will believe it. I'll lie. I don’t remember you, I don’t want to and I can’t. But I love you as before, Maybe even more tenderly, More heartless, more hopeless In the emptiness, in the fog of days. * * * This is just blue incense, This is just a dream within a dream, Stars over a deserted garden, Roses on your window. This is what in this world is called spring, Silence, cool light Above the cool depths. The strokes of the black oars are wider, The blue twilight is purer... This is what in this world is called fate. * * * I love these snowy mountains On the edge of the world's emptiness. I love these blue gazes, where you are reflected like light. But in this senseless fatherland I cannot understand anything. Only ghosts beg for life; Only roses bloom in the snow, Only a curved line winds, Triumphant over a snowy straight line, And the world's nonsense makes noise, Hitting the world's granite. * * * The world goes out. The evening is shining. Sail. The forests are noisy. Human speeches, Angelic voices. Human grief, Angelic triumph... Only the stars. Only the sea. Only. Nothing else. Without a number, the candles shine. Sweeter than the darkness. Bells. Starry Eternity lay like black velvet on the shoulders. Hush... This is life going away, loving everything and ruining everything. Do you hear? This night takes you into starry eternity. * * * Icy worlds A dull pain permeates... The rules of the game are known. Live without retreating from them: To the right is darkness, to the left is light, Above them is time and space. Calculated constancy... And then? Music and nonsense. The blue abyss has died, the connection between this and that is broken, and the doomed one, dying, flies, bending around the orbit, into the metaphysical mud. * * * In your room you can hear the noise of branches, and a white star looks there. The nightingale is crying outside your window, and it’s as bright as day in your room. Only silence, Only blue ice, And forever the bottom will not reach the lot. The sharpest eye will not see the bottom, The most sensitive ear will not hear the hour - Where fate flies, Silence, spring One of two, One of us. * * * The sad and beautiful world is barely touched by fading, Sails float and sink, Voices call and go out. Like a star, the lantern shakes. Without a trace - into the fog of separation. Forever? - doesn’t answer, just stretches out his hands - Closer to the snow, to the white foam, Closer to the stars, closer to home... ...And the night shadows grow, And the night shadows slide over the face of someone else. * * * The hairstyle and costume change, But our body, Hopes, passions, restless mind remain the same, Whose will would not want to change them. Blind Homer and the modern poet, Unknown, destitute by exile, Keep one - unquenchable! - light, Possess the same precious knowledge. And to the mob demanding newness, He says: “There is no newness. There is a measure, But you are disgustingly funny to me, Like a barbarian criticizing Homer!” * * * The waves rustled: “Hurry, hurry!” A light boat was carried to destruction, The bluish stalks of leeks sprouted from the ground into the red mist. The mountains were smoking, smoldering like dead wood, and overtook them from different sides, - Your lunar name, Lorelei, the Rhine midnight of your funeral. ...Here I am walking through the autumn garden and carrying a cigarette like a candle. I’ll sit on the cast-iron bench and throw away the cigarette butt. I'll trample it with my foot. * * * There will be no Europe, no America, no Tsarskoye Selo parks, no Moscow - A fit of atomic hysteria will scatter everything into a radiance of blue. Then a transparent, all-forgiving smoke will gently stretch over the sea... And the one who could help and did not help will remain in eternal loneliness. * * * I imagine everything in a blissful fog: Statues, arches, gardens, flower beds. Dark waves of a beautiful river... Once memories begin, That means... Or maybe it’s all nothing. ...Here I crawl out of the den like an animal, Into the cold of Paris, stooped, sick... “Poor people” is an example of a tautology, Who said this? Maybe by me. * * * AND ABOUT. Talk to me about trifles, Talk to me about eternity. Let the flowers born in spring lie in your arms, like a child. You are so carefree and so sad. Like music, you can forgive everything. You are as carefree as spring, And like spring, you can’t help but be sad. * * * Fog. There is a road in front of me, I wander along it as usual. I don’t expect much from the future, or rather, I don’t expect anything. I don’t believe in God’s mercy, I don’t believe that I will burn in hell. So the prisoners trudge from prison to prison... ...The lion extends its paw to me, and I kindly shake it. - How are you, colleague? Do you also sleep without sheets? What on earth is whiter than snow, more transparent than desert air? Have you escaped from the menagerie? You are the king of beasts. And I am a sheep In the sad position of a prince Without a royal palace. No fee. Without a crown. With all the bastards on first name. The crows laugh at me, the cats scratch me. Let them scratch and laugh, I got used to this a long time ago. Bring me happiness on a saucer - I'll throw it out the window. Poems and stars remain, But the rest is all the same!.. * * * The ocean carries me away, Now to St. Petersburg, now to Paris. There is tympanum in my ears, fog in my eyes, Through them I listen and see - The night shines with nightingales, And the stars, like snowflakes, melt, And souls - they cannot be helped - Fly away with a groan, Fly away with a groan into eternity. * * * In the oleander branches the trill of a nightingale. The gate slammed shut with a plaintive thud. The moon has set behind the clouds. And I am ending the earthly walk through torment, Walking through the torment that I saw in a dream - With exile, love for you and sins. But I have not forgotten that I was promised to Resurrect. Return to Russia - in poetry.
The fire in the fireplace burns hot and cheerful, scattering gold sparks, crunching dry branches like a dog crunching bones. Tongues of flame lick the stone walls, testing them either for strength or simply for taste, peeking into the room, reaching for the wood piled on the floor by the fireplace. But they don’t get them and hide back into the cozy crampedness of the hot, blazing walls. And outside the tall narrow window it has been raining for an hour now. This makes the room especially cozy; you want to throw a blanket on the sofa, pour some wine, take a thick old book and slowly, lazily turn through the pages with slightly faded miniatures, running your eyes over long-familiar poems.
If I were on the other side of the frame, I would certainly do so... But people are unbearably troublesome creatures. Because of them, I can’t get home, to my own hearth, where the fire is certainly no worse, and maybe even better. Now lie on a wet slippery branch, spread out, repeating all its curves and with all your might your scales merging with the colorful autumn leaves... And how much longer to get wet like this is completely unknown!
The man by the fireplace shrugs his shoulders chillily. He nervously stretches his fingers and twirls a dry leaf that has flown out the window with a gust of cold wind. Having thrust it into the fire, he gloomily watches for several moments as the golden lump flares up, scattering into grains of ash. Then he gets up from the low bench and only manages to take a couple of steps towards the table when the door, as if from a gust of wind, opens sharply. And immediately the tension leaves the hardened shoulders, so that the next step towards the newcomer turns out to be smooth, predatory...
- Well hello.
He just silently bows his head. He takes off his threadbare hat, which is dripping with water, and throws the wet rag of his raincoat onto the bench against the wall. He is several years younger than the owner of the house, and, perhaps, good-looking: a mustache is just emerging, as red as short, tousled curls, blue eyes from under golden eyelashes curled at the ends, looking furiously, hatefully. Stepping towards the table, he rests his palms on it and freezes.
- So you will remain silent?
“I won’t,” the red-haired man grins wickedly. His out-of-fashion and well-worn jacket, when wet, looks completely pathetic. - Shall we talk?
“Let’s talk,” the owner of the house responds. - Go to the fire, dry off.
- Maybe I should also turn my back to you?
“Don’t be stupid,” the first one responds annoyed. - What will I do to you?
“Nothing,” the redhead unexpectedly agrees. “As long as I have the paper, you can’t do anything.” By the way, should I show you? Or will you take my word for it?
- Why not? - the first one smiles, the smile seems to illuminate the beautiful face from the inside, making it amazingly sincere. - I’ll believe you. Did you bring the original?
“A copy,” the red-haired man says gloatingly. - And the original is from a reliable person. In case I don't come back...
For a moment, the room becomes completely quiet, only the fireplace continues to crackle, but the crunch of branches is not cheerful, but alarming. Then the slightly older one shakes his head, takes a step back from the table separating them and sits down again on the bench by the fireplace, legs stretched out comfortably. Long dark strands fall on both sides of the face, framing high cheekbones, a thoroughbred nose with a hump, a beautifully sculpted chin with a charming dimple. On a cherry velvet camisole, gold buttons with a ducal crown glitter dully.
- Why are you doing this? We were once friends. I came to negotiate.
“We were friends until you seduced my fiancee,” the red-haired man spits out the words. - You knew that she swore an oath to me! Why? Why exactly the one that I loved?
- How long have you waited to complain? Has it ever occurred to you that your person is by no means the center of the universe? - the dandy asks quite calmly, and only his fingers, covered with expensive rings, nervously fiddle with the golden braid on the field of his camisole. - And that this particular girl is not only supposedly your bride, but also the heiress of the kingdom. The kingdom may be small, but even such people don’t lie on the road, you know. Not everyone knows how to live like birds, feeding on songs and dreams.
- What a scum you are! - the redhead exhales helplessly. -You don’t even need her? Just her crown? So he would seduce the queen right away - why wait?
- Good idea! And how did it not occur to me?
Now there is mockery in the voice of the owner of the house.
- One problem, the queen is too smart for that. To end up in her bed would be all right, but you shouldn’t count on anything more. A daughter is a completely different matter. In general, only a poet could seriously expect that children’s vows would mean something.
“I won’t let you,” the redhead says quietly but firmly. “If the queen finds out that you are trading her secrets, the scaffold will seem like mercy to you.”
- Heavenly light! Why do you think I'm here? See an old friend? I don’t know how you dug up this trash heap - luck loves fools - but let’s come to an agreement, my old friend. Just don't say that you don't need anything. Otherwise, you would not have come here, but to our crowned godmother.
“Okay,” the redhead agrees dully. - Here's my condition. You leave immediately. And I’m silent about paper. As long as I'm alive, no one will find her. But if you leave, and tomorrow they kill me in the gateway, the queen will have the paper much earlier than you at the city outpost.
And again there is silence in the room. The owner of the house takes a couple of logs and, turning to the fireplace, puts them on the fire, then stirs up the already burnt out coals. A gold ring with a large sapphire glitters and shimmers in the reflections of the fire.
- So? - The redhead is the first to break down.
“It won’t work,” the interlocutor calmly responds. - What if tomorrow they kill you without my participation? The godfather's arms are long, she can reach me from afar. I suggest another way out. You give me the paper and you will never need anything in your life again. If you want, sing songs here, if you want, go to the imperial court. I know you have always dreamed about this. Well, think about it, who will allow you to marry the princess? You are no longer children to play bride and groom. I'm a different matter. I have a title, lands, relatives... And royal blood is not water!
- You don’t love her...
The owner of the house smiles condescendingly.
- Let me open it for you. terrible secret. To become a king, you don't have to love your future wife. It's enough for her to love me. I will marry our childhood playmate, I will groom and cherish her, fulfill all her innermost desires and some of her whims. And then she will give birth to my children and will be happy, becoming a queen in title and privileges, but not in responsibilities. What can you give her? A few sweet nights and a lifetime of shame if this is revealed? Or will you torture the girl with your so-called love?
“It’s good that you think about me,” the red-haired man responds bitterly. - So the poet is a fool? I thought about this a lot more than you. Let her not be mine. But so does yours. You have a snake’s heart, you don’t even know how to love. And someday she will find a good husband and be happy.
- So we won’t agree. I will not go anywhere as long as the paper can reach the queen at any moment. Or will you order security to be assigned to you? And at the same time, doctors. And priests to pray for your health. What if you get poisoned by rotten sausage, and your man decides that it’s my job?
“I won’t be poisoned by sausage,” the red-haired man answers, looking his opponent in the eye. - But you guessed correctly about the poison... If you don’t want to leave, that’s your business! Do you have any wine here?
- What are you planning? - the dandy asks, slightly confused. - Of course I have…
- Carry it. And a couple of glasses. And also a pen, ink and a piece of paper... Well, come on!
The redhead's eyes sparkle feverishly. Moving away from the table, he sits down on a bench where a wet, crumpled raincoat lies, and clasps his whitened fingers on his knees. Shrugging his shoulders, the owner of the house leaves the room...
I carefully change my position - my body is completely numb - and again press myself against the branch. So you can grow to this tree... The rain from the downpour has turned into a fine, boring drizzle, the drops flow down the scales, membranes of the paws, folded wings. I move my ears and tail to warm them up at least a little... Well, how much can I do? If it were warm outside, I would lie here all day. I want to go home. To the hearth, warmed up wine and a blanket rolled into a comfortable nest. And to scratch behind the ear... Speaking of wine. And here it is! I again turn into solid eyes and ears, forgetting about the disgusting rain...
- Here! Now, be so kind as to explain what was born in your poetic imagination.
He puts on the table a pot-bellied bottle with a long narrow neck, a couple of crystal glasses, and a writing utensil. He quickly uncorks the bottle. A thick aroma floats through the room. The wine smells of bitter summer leaves, apples and flowers. This smell makes you want to breathe, it invites you to laugh and sing, dance and kiss lips sweet from strawberry juice, looking into eyes crazy with embarrassment and happiness...
- “Golden Leaf” in the hunting lodge? You live well...
“You could do no worse,” the interlocutor retorts. - Do you want to wait long?
“Not for long,” the red-haired man curls his lips. - Pour into glasses. And then throw it into one.
A small glass bottle falls onto the table. The owner of the house looks at him for a few moments, then shrugs.
- Okay, let's play. Consider me curious.
Several transparent grains, similar to coarse salt, dissolve in the wine instantly, without changing either color or smell. The redhead, leaning forward, looks at this, and icy melancholy freezes in his blue eyes.
- What's next?
- Further?
The redhead flinches at the call.
- Next - here!
Unfastening the shabby gilded hooks of his jacket, he takes out a crumpled sheet of paper.
- This is my bet. All I have. No copies, no person... I swear. God, honor and her life. And now you will write her a letter. That you don’t love her, that you wanted to marry her for the sake of the crown... You yourself will figure out how and what to write so that she doesn’t want to hear about you anymore...
- Interesting... - draws the dandy. - So, a regular duel with poisons doesn’t suit you? Have you decided to play it safe? Okay, let’s say I believe you that there are no copies anywhere else. It will just happen to you. It’s just bad luck, I won’t play, even with such stakes. One chance out of two is not enough for me...
“You will,” the red-haired man says confidently. Putting his hand into the wet pile of his cloak, he pulls out an elegant pistol trimmed with mother-of-pearl and points it at his interlocutor. His eyes widen.
“Either you play by my rules, or I’ll just shoot you.” The Queen will forgive me. And she... will also forgive someday... It only seems to her that she loves you. You can't love poisonous reptiles.
“Wow,” says the owner of the house with quiet anger. -Have you cut your teeth? But I wanted to order that you be met at the house... Blockhead! I remembered the old things, softened up, felt sorry for the fool... You’re just being used, don’t you understand? Do you think I will believe that you yourself found my letters, got hold of the poison and this toy?
“Write,” the redhead reminds.
After a pause, the dandy sits down at the table. The pen squeaks irritably on the paper, leaving ink splatters. The redhead's finger on the trigger turns white, but the heavy pistol does not tremble. Having waited until a sweeping signature appears on the sheet, the red-haired man gets up and walks towards the table, standing opposite the person sitting
“That’s interesting,” he mutters through his teeth, throwing the pen on the table. “What’s stopping you from just shooting me now?” Is your gut thin?
- Do you believe in fate?
- I believe in myself! - the dandy snaps, leaning back in his chair. - And spare me the pathos.
“Okay, I’ll spare you,” the red-haired man smiles unexpectedly sadly. - But I believe it. And our rules will be simple. You turn away, I'll change glasses. You choose the first one. And we will drink to old friendship. Or for her. As you want! And if you're lucky, it's fate. But if not, I will need this letter so that she doesn’t cry for you.
The first initial notes of the smell have subsided, dissolving in the rainy freshness blowing from the window, and now the aroma of wine reveals heart notes. The room smells of berries, wormwood, and a little smoke. Although the latter is more likely from the fireplace. The rain has stopped completely; The rays of sunset break through the tight, albeit yellowed foliage. Biting his lip, the owner of the house turns away sharply. Right left hand the guest dives under the cuff of the right one holding the gun. The redhead hurriedly throws something into both glasses, and then slightly moves them from their place. An instant cloudiness behind the thin iris, and immediately the gold of the wine brightens again, softly shimmering in the rays falling from the window.
- All. Choose.
The man in the cherry-colored camisole turns slowly, without looking, he takes the nearest one. The fingers tightly grasp the thin glass, the hand trembles barely noticeably.
“Step back,” the redhead calmly warns. - And don’t even think about throwing - even I won’t miss from such a distance.
Taking the second glass, he slowly brings it to his lips, watching his opponent. He responds in kind. Their lips touch the glass at the same time. The dandy swallows the wine in three large gulps and violently throws the glass on the floor. Under a thin plaintive ringing, the fragments scatter throughout the room. The redhead mutters slowly, then carefully places the crystal back on the table. The two freeze.
“It’s funny,” the red-haired man suddenly says, wearily lowering the pistol. - For the third time in my life I drink “Golden Leaf”. And again with you. And you said that you don’t love him.
“But I don’t like it,” the dandy responds. - As for me, it’s not worth its price. You won't believe it, I bought it for you. I thought I’d invite him to visit and have an honest conversation. We talked...
“We talked...,” the redhead echoes.
Fingers in rings frantically clutch the edge of the table. The owner of the house raises his eyes bulging in horror, trying to say something, silently, like a fish on dry land, opens his mouth and falls heavily to the floor. The body arches with a spasm, and, with a short wheeze, he falls silent. The red-haired man who dropped the pistol kneels down next to him. Tears flow down her freckled face, as if sprinkled with gold paint.
- Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry... - he repeats sobbingly, swaying over his body, blindly looking at the ceiling.
The log in the fireplace crackles loudly. Startled, the red-haired man jumps up, diligently averting his eyes from the man lying there, grabs a sheet and a dried letter from the table, puts them back under his jacket and, without taking his coat, goes to the door. Having barely crossed the threshold, he falls and convulses, not seeing how a swift shadow jumps from a branch into the room through the open window. He no longer feels how long, tenacious fingers with sharp claws unceremoniously search him. Blue eyes on a lightningly pale face look up just as meaninglessly and hopelessly as the eyes of the first person left in the room. And the last trail of smell slowly floats in the air: honey, fallen leaves, moss and dragon blood.
The hearth burns exactly as it should: even heat flows in all directions, not scorching, but warming the frozen body to the very bones. I unfold my wings, exposing them to the flow of hot air, turning first one side, then the other. Then, having completely warmed up, I simply roll onto my stomach, curling up in the folds of a huge blanket made of soft goat hair. An empty wine goblet stands nearby, it smells sharp and intoxicating. A hand with manicured nails absentmindedly scratches behind my ear.
- For what? - I lazily wonder when the bliss of warmth, intoxication and affection penetrates every corner of the body. - The Duke - understandable, but why the poet? He believed you. I drank the poison, thinking that this was just the antidote... Don’t you feel sorry?
The second hand throws the last paper into the fireplace, where the crumpled lump is already burning out. On the low lacquered table lies only the letter from the first.
- It's a pity. Both. I'm their godmother. But I feel sorry for my daughter more, baby. One would break her heart, the other would almost steal her crown. If you choose between a naive fool and a smart scoundrel, then it is better not to choose at all.
- So what now? Will you give her the letter?
- Let's see who she misses more. It's better to let him cry for this poor boy than for his brat cousin. And in the spring the embassy will arrive, my girl is expected at the imperial court. Everything has already been agreed...
- Your Majesty...
- What, baby?
- Can I have the “Golden Leaf”? There, in the hunting lodge, I never tried...
- You can, baby. Right now?
Looking back at the empty goblet, I lick my lips and decide not to be greedy. Not all human habits are worth adopting.
- Tomorrow... I want to sleep...
“Sleep,” a soft voice agrees, and his hands move the blanket under my face just the way I like it. Sleep comes with a soft, gentle warmth spreading throughout the body: from the ears to the very tips of the wings and tail. And then everything spins, fails, and I fly in the bottomless blue sky, smelling of the sun, happiness, the hands of the queen and the “Golden Leaf”...